Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  “Okay.”

  She turned at the door. “And hey,” she said in mock American accent, imitating the well-known line from Hill Street Blues, “let’s be careful out there.”

  “And don’t forget,” he joined in, “do it to them before they do it to you.”

  The front door closed and he was alone, apart from the radio. The familiar beat of a song took him back to 1979. Nottingham. That was when he had first met Laura. She was at teacher training college while he was studying English at the University. The dance floor in the Student Union was a good hunting ground for him and his mates back then. What was it that had first attracted him? Her waist-length blonde hair? The skin-hugging pink top that displayed her naked midriff? Was it, perhaps, the way she laughed with her friends, her sparkling eyes, so full of life and mischief? No, it was really her gorgeous arse in tight white jeans gyrating with Tina Turner to Nutbush City Limits.

  He finished his coffee and wandered over to the message board on the wall by the back door. All sorts of bits of paper were pinned to it, dental appointment cards, Jasper’s vet record. Catching his attention, a photograph of Amanda with a classmate taken during last summer’s school trip to France.

  He removed the picture and studied it for a few seconds. He could see Laura’s good looks in his daughter. She’d dyed her hair darker as a lot of her friends had done but the shape of her face, the high cheekbones, the smile, yes that was Laura twenty years ago. Her attitude came from him. Fortunately, the genes hadn’t developed the other way round. Amused at this thought, he pinned the photo back on the board, gathered up his things and set off for work.

  5

  Eileen Waterson stood in the car park and looked up despairingly at the multi-storey tower block. Drizzle had begun to fall. Her young assistant, six months out of school, stood beside her. She wondered how long he would last in the job.

  She locked the car and contemplated the climb to the tenth floor. Hardcastle House was one of a pair of identical drab, grey, multi-storey blocks of flats built in the 1960’s. It would be a miracle if the lifts were working. Even when they were, the stench of urine and other disgusting activities was overpowering.

  Eileen had been an environmental health officer for the council for over ten years. In that time, she’d witnessed some fairly revolting sights. The levels to which some humanity could descend no longer shocked her.

  Environmental Health had taken a phone call from an irate Mrs. Lockwood earlier in the day. No, they hadn’t any note of her previous complaint from yesterday. Yes, it was disgraceful the dozy young girl didn’t listen and, yes, they now had all the details and would send someone round to investigate today.

  When Eileen picked up the note to investigate the complaint of a foul smell at 106 Hardcastle House, she’d checked the Housing Department records for the tenancy of the flat. She didn’t have a good feeling about it. The rent was some eight weeks in arrears. That wasn’t unusual for Hardcastle House but previously on this flat, the rent had always been paid promptly.

  She had developed a keen sense of smell, so when they approached the flat’s door along the open corridor, the reason for the complaint was obvious to her. She had experienced this aroma on several previous occasions. For the present, she gave no indication of her suspicions to her assistant. She also noticed the curtains to the window were pulled shut and, more significantly, a number of bluebottles were crawling over the inside of the glass. As she rang the bell, the door to the adjacent flat opened and an elderly woman looked out.

  “You from the council?”

  “Environmental Health.” Eileen showed her identity card to the woman.

  “Humph!” the old lady grunted. “About bloody time.”

  Eileen rang the bell again. “Have you seen anyone coming or going recently, Mrs. er…?”

  “Lockwood. And I keep myself to myself.”

  Eileen smiled grimly before kneeling down to peer through the letterbox. She closed it sharply, turning away from her colleague to conceal the fact that she wanted to retch. After a few seconds, she had composed herself. “Come on,” she said to the young lad, “I think we need some assistance here.”

  “Is that it?” the old woman called.

  “We’ll be back, Mrs. Lockwood, don’t worry.”

  “Humph!” she said again and closed her door.

  6

  Souter had risen late, determined to catch up on lost sleep from the past few days. The sound of the letterbox snapping shut as mail dropped onto the hall carpet around eleven thirty had been the significant factor in drawing his slumber to a close.

  After showering, shaving and dressing, he rummaged through the kitchen cupboards for some breakfast. He’d upset himself by standing on Jean’s bathroom scales and pushing the reading to just under sixteen stones. He reasoned that at six feet two this was quite acceptable. However, the bit of a gut he’d developed over the past few months seemed to destroy that argument.

  Two mugs of coffee, three slices of toast and butter and two cigarettes later, he felt ready to deal with whatever the day would bring.

  First task was to ring his old friend Colin Strong. He found the Wood Street number but when he was put through, he was told Strong was out. Declining the offer to leave a message, he then tried a few old journalist contacts from his Sheffield Star days. For the time being, he decided against calling John Chandler, his old editor at the paper, and soon to be his new boss at the Yorkshire Post. Next on the list was Stan Johnson who was off ill, but Jimmy Wilson, his old sports reporter colleague, was delighted to hear from him. They arranged to meet in the Stonehouse pub, near the cathedral in Sheffield, at half-past three. That would give him time for a quick haircut in town before travelling down the M1.

  The Stonehouse was a large city-centre establishment with a traditional open bar room leading directly off the street. Through to the rear was a vast enclosed area surrounded by chintzy shops made to look like a courtyard. Souter was not surprised to see Jimmy Wilson already at the bar with a half finished pint. Wilson was a short man of fifty-six, shabbily dressed in an old brown suit that he remembered from three years back. He bought Souter a pint and a fresh one for himself before they drifted around searching out a seat.

  “So,” Wilson said, once they’d settled in to the picnic table seating that aided the illusion of being outdoors, “a top job at the Post. Good luck to you, Bob. I always thought you’d make it.” He raised his glass to Souter.

  “Thanks, mate. How’s life been treating you?” Not that well by the look of you, he thought, as he took in Wilson’s bloated face, double chins and straggly thin grey hair.

  “Not too bad, I suppose, if you ignore the fact that Wednesday will probably get relegated this season and I can’t see United making it back to the Premiership, so Sheffield could be a bleak city next season.”

  “Still, look on the bright side - that would mean two local derbies.”

  “True.”

  The conversation paused as two young women who had sat down at the next table struggled to relieve themselves of their coats. Finally breaking free, one strained to contain her ample breasts beneath a low-cut, red lambswool jumper. The other, not quite so well endowed, wore a sheer white blouse.

  “Absolutely bloody lovely," Wilson said under his breath. “Like two bald blokes fighting under a blanket.” He’d frozen, glass held halfway to his mouth, eyes fixated.

  Souter watched his friend, bemused and just managed to avert his gaze when the red top became aware of the attention she’d created. “Pervs,” she said to her mate.

  Wilson turned back to Souter. “I can’t help it, I don’t get much pleasure in life these days, not since …. well, never mind.”

  Souter laughed and shook his head. “You haven’t changed a bit, Jimmy. Still the same old lecherous sod.”

  “Hey, less of the old. Anyway, you haven’t done too badly for yourself in your time. What about Jennifer from the office? I was sorry
to hear that didn’t last long, but there again, you did put it about a bit. Didn’t you once have one of the barmaids from here?”

  “Well, that was a long time ago. Plenty of water under the bridge since then.”

  They sat in silence for a while. They were painful thoughts for Souter, but Wilson couldn’t know just how painful.

  “How’s that wee boy of yours?” Wilson asked. “He must be growing up … fast …” His voice trailed off as he saw the expression on Souter’s face.

  “Adam. His name was Adam,” Souter said, struggling to keep control. “And he died last August. In Canada. Jennifer and that fucking shithead she went off with took him over there.” Souter’s eyes glistened. “He would have been eight last week.”

  “Aw, Jesus, Bob. I’m … oh but how, I mean …?”

  “He drowned.” A tear trickled down his cheek.

  “Shit, I’m sorry, mate.” The old hack paused awkwardly. “Shall I get us another in?”

  Souter stood up and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “No, you’re all right.” He wiped his face and blew his nose. “I’m just off for a pee. I’ll get them in on the way back.”

  When he returned about five minutes later, Souter felt brighter. “So, what’s all the latest gossip then? You’ve generally got your finger on the pulse, Jimmy.”

  “Where do you want me to start? Football? Then how about the Premiership star who spends a fortune shoving white powder up his nose at sex parties in Huddersfield?”

  Souter laughed, “Huddersfield? Since when did Huddersfield become the centre of the raving world? No, sport’s outside my remit these days – Crime and Home Affairs, that’s what I deal with now.”

  “Okay,” Wilson retorted, “how about the traffic cop based in Leeds who left his wife of ten years last month for a boutique owner from Harrogate?”

  “Blokes are having it off with other women every day. That’s hardly big news.”

  “It is if the boutique owner’s called Tristran.”

  Souter spluttered on his beer. “Fucking Hell, Jimmy, where did you get that from?”

  Wilson tapped the side of his nose. “Contacts,” he said, “contacts.”

  Souter just shook his head.

  “Listen, if you fancy it, I’ve got to cover the game at Maine Road on Saturday. Come with me if you want. Cheer you up. I know it’s only Man City against Sheffield United but … be like old times for you.”

  Souter thought for a second. “Yeah,” he said, “I might just do that. I’ll let you know.”

  They sipped some more of their beer before Wilson asked where Souter was staying.

  “I’m just crashing at my sister, Jean’s, house in Wakefield for a week or two.”

  Wilson looked thoughtful. “Wakefield? That’s where that DCI’s based. Cunningham, isn’t it?”

  “What are you on about?”

  “That last case you reported before you left. Summers, wasn’t it? Sexual assault on that barmaid. I’m sure it was Cunningham that put him away?”

  “Yeah,” Souter remembered, “that’s right. He was a DI then.”

  “I didn’t think it would have done his promotion prospects any harm. And do you remember a young bit of skirt working the case with him?”

  “I think so, why?”

  “Rumour has it he was nobbing it.”

  “There you go, I told you blokes are at it every day. She was a bit of a looker, if I remember, lucky bastard. But Summers maintained his innocence, though. His brother, oh I can’t remember his name now, he was always making noises about how it was a stitch up.”

  “He might have a point,” Wilson said. “Anyway, she disappeared off the scene pretty quickly after that. Promotion and London, they said. Then he got made up. Slippery bastard. It might be worth keeping him on your radar.”

  “Thanks for that.” Souter once again thought of his old mate Colin Strong. “I’ll bear that in mind. Now, one for the road?”

  7

  Strong was in his office reviewing the files on the case that was due in court the following day when Atkinson knocked on his door.

  “Ah, Malcolm, how did you get on with our Geordie Jock?”

  “We charged him with handling and released him on bail last night, guv.”

  “Did you speak to Rosie Hudson?”

  “Yes, she confirmed he was with her on November the 28th and probably on the other dates too but she couldn’t be sure. Also, she claims she knew nothing about the videos and TV’s we found there.”

  “And, let me guess, she doesn’t know any of Montgomery’s friends either.”

  Atkinson merely nodded confirmation.

  “All right then, get a list of his known associates, see how many have been interviewed before and how many have previous for burglary. Check their stories for the nights in question.”

  Atkinson placed a small rectangular package on Strong’s desk. “And Sgt. Sidebotham asked me to give you this.”

  Strong studied it for a moment but when Atkinson turned to leave, called him back. “Oh, one more thing, see if you can dig up any background information on Montgomery. For instance, it says in his file he’s divorced. See if you can find out from whom; did they have any kids, that sort of thing.”

  Atkinson looked puzzled.

  “Something wrong, constable?”

  Atkinson noted the change of tone. “No, guv,” he replied, closing the door behind him.

  Satisfied he’d gone, Strong brought a small cassette player and a copy of Montgomery’s interview tape from the middle drawer of his desk. Unwrapping Sidebotham’s package revealed another tape, which he placed in the machine then pushed the play button. The first words in that familiar, slightly lispy, north-east accent emerged from the player.

  ‘I’m Jack.

  ‘I see you are still having no luck catching me …’

  This was the notorious message sent to taunt George Oldfield, the senior detective leading the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper in 1979.

  When it had finished, he played the copy of Montgomery’s interview, then stopped both tapes at the points he wished to study further.

  ‘I have the greatest of respect for you, George, but Lord; you are no nearer to catching me now than four years ago.’

  The voice from twenty odd years before sounded just as menacing and mocking as he remembered it.

  ‘Lord! How many more times, I bought them from some bloke in a pub!’

  Billy Montgomery’s voice didn’t sound as similar as he first thought. Truth to tell it was really only his use of ‘Lord’ that could be considered similar. Was he letting his imagination run away with him? Was he likely to embarrass himself? In the end, it was over twenty years ago, does it really matter? He took a small cigar from the pack in his pocket, walked over to the window, opened it slightly, then lit up.

  Of course it matters. The person responsible for the tape and the previous letters distracted the police enquiries from the true culprit. At least three more victims lost their lives at the hands of Peter Sutcliffe. The perpetrator of the cruel hoax was as responsible as Sutcliffe himself. “Of course it matters,” Strong said out loud.

  An hour and a couple of phone calls later, Strong stepped into the office of Dr. Jacob Goldsmith at Leeds University. Dr. Goldsmith was a researcher in the Department of Linguistics and Phonetics. A small man with dark, tightly curled hair, he remembered meeting Colin Strong a year or two before and was explaining that his most recent project was a study into how children acquire accents based on social-sensitivity. The study was focusing on Tyneside.

  “Actually, doctor,” Strong said, “I’m interested in an area not far from Tyneside. Wearside actually.”

  “Please, call me Jacob.” Dr. Goldsmith adjusted the small rectangular-lensed glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Those two areas are very interesting. They’re similar but markedly different, if you know how to listen. So how can I help you? I assume this is official p
olice business?”

  “Well, actually, I’d prefer it if this was just between ourselves for now. It may become official later but, for the moment …”

  “I quite understand,” Dr. Goldsmith said. “Now, what have you got for me?”

  Strong produced the two tapes from his jacket pocket. “I’d like your opinion on these if you would. If you could listen to this one first, I think you may be familiar with it.”

  The expert took the ‘Ripper’ tape and placed it in the equipment on the desk behind him. As soon as it began, he nodded. “Yes, I understand we did considerable work on this, oh, fifteen, twenty years ago.”

  “1979, yes.”

  “That was before my time here, obviously, but the data should still be available somewhere.”

  “Now this one please. Recorded yesterday.”

  Dr. Goldsmith repeated the operation for Montgomery’s interview tape and when that had finished, he was silent for a moment. “You think this may be the same man?”

  “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Well, the time differential will be significant. People’s accents can change, especially over such a long period; they age for one thing, lose teeth, or have false ones.” Dr. Goldsmith was thoughtful. “This man, the one on the second tape, he’s travelled widely in Britain. Predominantly he speaks with a Glaswegian accent which is very powerful and tends to swamp others. People from that area tend not to lose their accents as easily as other Scottish regions, Edinburgh, say. He has also lived in West Yorkshire for some time, that is evident too.” Strong nodded, as Dr. Goldsmith continued, “But, I can see why you have some suspicions. I won’t be able to give you a full opinion until I run some tests. Can you leave these with me?”